


i'm a real queen, i can make grown men cry

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, slime puppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 13:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20583236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: It’s strange, how it happened, how they found each other. She’s been in his life forever, he’s just a blip on her timeline. But he’s always known he can depend on her, the woman who got him out of scrapes as a child, the only person who thinks to give him advice now.





	i'm a real queen, i can make grown men cry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leatherpumpkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leatherpumpkin/gifts).

It’s strange, how it happened, how they found each other. She’s been in his life forever, he’s just a blip on her timeline. But he’s always known he can depend on her, the woman who got him out of scrapes as a child, the only person who thinks to give him advice now.

She wasn’t very good at marriage, but she’s always been good at this, holding power in her hand, laying waste to the men in front of her. He’s never been good at anything, and it’s a relief when someone will finally say it.

He’s come to her room in the middle of the night, called her in the early morning hours, and she’s answered every time. They dance around each other in the daylight, interactions camouflaged with jokes, with hidden innuendos that only they understand.

Face to face, after ten weeks of management training. Too long to go with only these clandestine “conference calls,” Gerri only sliding her hand into her pants after the call has ended. Not long enough to make Roman into anything Logan will truly respect.

Face to face with only a bedside lamp to light their faces, Gerri’s smirking mouth, sarcasm lurking in her eyes, vituperation sitting on her tongue. Roman is watchful, careful, the youngest son, the runt of the litter. 

For the first time, she touches him, strong hand grasping through his jeans, gripping him just a little too hard and Roman gasps at the feel of it, his eyes already rolling back in his head, no longer embarrassed at how much he wants this, no longer in awe of this woman for knowing what he needs.

“Is this all there is?” Gerri hisses into Roman’s ear, her fingernails digging in through the thick fabric. “This is what you have for me?” Her thumb toys with the zipper, pressing in, pulling it down, her hands more dexterous than Roman knew, than he imagined.

And he has imagined this, alone in his bed, only his thoughts and a deceptively gentle voice on the other end of a phone call. He doesn’t have to talk, the only words he needs to say are ones to urge her on.

She doesn’t know yet if she wants him to touch her, doesn’t know yet how far she’ll go. For all the weeks they’ve spent doing...whatever this is that they’re doing, she doesn’t know how it ends. Perhaps that’s some of the enjoyment, some of the rush. His back is against the wall, as it so often is in his life, and Gerri finds pleasure in keeping him there, his slouched shoulders struggling against the posture she’s forced him into. 

They’re close, and she can feel his breath on her cheek, his face a mask of anticipation, almost gleeful, and she thinks maybe it’s reflected back in her eyes. Finally, _finally_, she thumbs down the zipper pull, can feel him throbbing against the silk of his underwear, warm, damp, pushing into her hand. 

“You want this very badly, don’t you?” she says, leaning in, lips grazing his ear. She can smell his aftershave, his sweat, feels the air move against her mouth as he nods, swallowing hard. “I’m old enough to be your mother, and you’re begging for this like a little boy who hasn’t had dessert,” she says, no longer wondering if she’s playing it right, if she’s found the balance of what Roman needs, what he wants. 

“You’re disgusting,” she says, and her hand tightens its hold on him. He gasps, his head almost falling against her shoulder but he keeps himself separate, held apart. The smirk that flicks across his face is enough incentive for Gerri to continue. “You’re just a hairless mole, scurrying from hole to hole, just to avoid being whacked.” 

She can feel herself getting wet now, too, the power thrumming through her, the knowledge that she can do this, that she _is_ doing this. 

“Yes,” Roman pants, too caught up to be caustic, unable to be blasé, not when Gerri has him in a vise, not when they’re here, pressed together in her darkened bedroom, the only light from a lamp, from the moon shining through her large windows. It smells like her perfume, all around, all over, filling his nostrils, clouding his brain, and he thinks he could die in the scent of her. 

“It’s a miracle you’ve made it this long,” she says, warming to the words, feeling the rush down her spine, the broiling of her stomach that chases away any sense of revulsion, any tinge of shame. “Tumbling through life like a baby bird, no sense in the head of yours, no way to fly from the nest.” Roman’s head stutters, almost like he wants to turn into her mouth but aborted the movement. He wants to swallow her vituperative words, to eat them, to sate his stomach with them. 

Gerri pushes aside the silk fabric, pushes them off his thin hips, along with his pants, bagging around his knees. She looks at Roman, his face almost pleading in the dim light, asking her to help him, asking her to fix him, asking her to make him whole. “Have you ever even undressed a woman?” she asks, her tone laced with venom, with derision. Again his head moves, a nod, a shake, she isn’t sure. 

So she stands before him, waits for him to get up the gumption, to find some bravery, to bring up his shaking hands to her blouse. 

She always has so many buttons, so many tiny little buttons, and he doesn’t know what to do with them. Not until she grasps his fingers in her own and places them against her stomach. It’s not flat, not like Tabitha’s long, lean body. But it’s warm, like a home, and she’s watching Roman with those careful eyes, like he might bolt at any moment.

But he’s staying put, he’s putting his fingers on those tiny buttons, and he is surprisingly delicate, dainty. Like he’s undressing a doll. “We haven’t got all night,” she prods, but in another world, another life, she would appreciate the care. He looks at her, his shirt hanging loose, his pants still at his knees, and she just stares back, uncompromising. “Rip it off, if you have the strength,” she says, because she has five more blouses like this in her closet, because if he can’t do this, she isn’t sure where they go from here. 

His hands ball into small fists around the fabric and Gerri’s heart speeds up. “Do it. _Wormy fuck._” The sharp _k_ sound impels him to action and he pulls at her shirt, rending it apart, buttons popping off, skittering against the floor. She smiles. “Good boy.” Resists the urge to pat him on the head. 

“Thanks, _Mom_,” he answers, getting some of his own back, but his gaze is trained to her bared skin, her lacy bra, her womanly body. He sees the wrinkles, the sagging, and he does not care. There is wonder in his eyes, and his fingers twitch with the urge to touch, floating around her hips like there’s a barrier keeping him from her. 

“Too afraid?” she challenges. “Too scared?” He shudders a sigh, his erection growing, reddening, his thighs still pale. “Touch me, you little maggot, or you’ll go home with nothing.” The threat isn’t idle. She could have gotten herself off by now, could have slid off her skirt and brought herself to the edge with careful, purposeful fingers. It’s enough to make Roman act, his clammy hands moving against her skin, growing more confidence with every second. 

He is brave enough to unclasp her skirt without being prompted, moves away only to let Gerri kick it aside, lifts an eyebrow at the matching lacy underwear, at the growing wet patch between her thighs. “I’m not the only one who’s been counting down the days to this,” he says, and he’s so cocky, so sure of himself, and Gerri loves to cut him down. 

“You’re no different than a vibrator to me,” she says, once more grasping him, sliding her hand along his length, her thumb rubbing back and forth against the tip, a small pearl of liquid appearing. She’s rough, unyielding, and constant. Roman gasps at her touch, and pulls her to him, unpracticed, unromantic, but eager. 

Both hands between them now, Gerri uses one to push down her own underpants, heat between their thighs like a humid swamp, and she thinks there’s a part of her, from long ago, who would never have believed she’d end up here, Logan Roy’s son cupped in her hand, fallen to her sway. She’s fucked him too, just once, his beard scratchy against her thighs as he licked into her, and when she buttoned her shirt and slipped on her shoes, she told him that she’d never get in bed with the Roys again. 

But she’s here, with Roman, with his dark eyes and his playful mouth, and he’s groaning at her touch, scrabbling at her skin, and it takes only a thrust of her hips to take him inside her, a small moan at the back of her throat as Roman starts to find a rhythm, as his own hips begin to move. She digs her nails into his shoulders, blunt manicure leaving marks in the fabric of his shirt, the one he’s never taken off. 

She’s never fucked a man against a wall, has always been the one to be pushed back, but she can’t see Roman doing that, can’t see him taking charge, not when he’s biting into her shoulder, just left of her bra strap, a mark she knows she’ll bring into tomorrow. “Harder,” she says, “like a _man_.” And he thrusts with all his might, making her gasp, making her wet, making her hot. 

Roman feels like he could become dangerously accustomed to this, to receiving orders, insults, to pushing inside this woman, without worrying what will happen when he comes, no fear that an errant seed will make another Roman, another kid just waiting to be fucked up. He groans as Gerri moves her hips, as she presses against them, her hand still cupping him, still pressed against him, her hand all he can think about. 

He’s never felt this, this stepping outside himself, separate from his quips and his brain and his mouth. He’s never been able to let go, never been able to trust that person giving him commands has his best interest at heart. But Gerri wouldn’t steer him wrong, Gerri wouldn’t take him in on a whim and cast him aside just as easily. Gerri, who knew what he needed from the start, and gave it to him with relish. 

She hisses when his hand comes between them too, when his finger finds her clit. Her voice is low and throaty when she groans out “_fuuuuuck_” and it almost makes him come. And then her hand clasps his wrist, puts him where he needs to be, her fingers show him the rhythm, show him what to do. 

“Don’t disappoint me,” she says, and even with her hair falling around her face, her eyes dark and slightly wild, she has the power to make him snap to attention, ready to obey orders. His dick and his fingers work in tandem, and he marvels at how wet she is, when all he can remember is his mother complaining that after a certain age she just dried up. 

She stutters over the edge, a groan, a hmph, and he keeps thrusting, so close, keeps working inside her because he’s never been this close. Her nails never stop digging, and her whispers are incessant in his ear; he’s low, he’s dirty, he’ll never amount to anything, he’s gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. 

Like gum, he stretches, he pulls, he expands. There’s white behind his eyes as he comes, and instead of sinking against Gerri, he flops back against the wall, looking up at her with his dark and defiant eyes, his mouth tipped in a smirk. She steps away, dark lace cupping her breasts, her eyes flashing down at him. 

“Who knew you had it in you?” she says, always wry, always in control, and he feels weak before her, like he should be on his knees in supplication. “You always could surprise me, Roman.” It’s almost too much, the twisted praise, and he can’t meet her eyes, looking down at his limp dick, still warm and sticky, resting between his legs. 

“But can you go another round?” That raised eyebrow, that disbelief at the edges of her words. No one else believes in him, no one else thinks he can accomplish anything. She can be another voice in the choir or she can be the challenger who makes him better. Before he can form a response, before sarcasm can rise to his lips, her hands are bent behind her, elbows making wings at her sides, and her bra is unclasped, falling to join the pile of her clothing. 

“If it’s too much…” she trails off, as much a suggestion that he can cry uncle whenever he wants as it is a poke in the ribs to get him moving. He lunges at her, full bore, lips touching hers for the first time, swallowing any care that threatens to leave her mouth, pushing away tenderness, asking for filth. 

They stumble, they fall, they fall so far, and yet they make it to her bed, her back pressed against her plush quilt, Roman straddling above her, waiting for her command. She reaches up, fingers in his hair, and pushes, prods, urges him between her thighs. “Lap me up,” she says, her head rolling back, “Drink me dry.” 

He does, his chin coated in her, his mouth aching for the taste of it, wanting to prove he’s good enough, he’s worthy, he’s able. He’ll never find his fill, not even when her hips arch up from the bed, not even when his hand finds her breast, when his mouth finds her nipple, his bite hard and urgent and enough to make her yelp as he suckles there. 

“You revolt me,” Gerri says, no caress wrapped in an insulting case, just rough words that make Roman look up at her with his sad puppy eyes. “You hasty, fucking _newt_.” His dick twitches against her shin, he thinks about pulling his body up, so they’re eye to eye, face to face. Instead he rolls over, away from her, spent, tired. 

“I don’t want to see you in the morning,” she says, her voice coming from far away. 

“The sweet talking never stops, does it?” he asks, though his words are fading with sleep, his eyes already closed.


End file.
